


The Witchers' Bard

by operacricket



Series: Witchers' Bard [1]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Torture, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, Kidnapping, M/M, Prompt Fill, jaskier gets adopted by the wolf school, not between any of the main characters, past baddies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-05
Updated: 2020-03-05
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:14:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23023849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/operacricket/pseuds/operacricket
Summary: While rooting out an evil, the other Witchers stumble across a bard in need of a rescue.
Relationships: Eskel & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Witchers' Bard [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1717072
Comments: 97
Kudos: 3004
Collections: Witcher Kink Meme (Dreamwidth)





	The Witchers' Bard

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Español available: [El Bardo de los Brujos](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24314650) by [Despicast_Castle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Despicast_Castle/pseuds/Despicast_Castle)



> Hey hey, I only know canon from reading fic and the wiki. I'm just here having fun.
> 
> Kinkmeme fill: Lambert, Eskel and Vesemir are hunting in the woods when they come across a group of slavers/bandits. After dispatching the bandits, they free the people being held captive but they find Geralt's friend (maybe lover idk) trying and failing to get off a nasty looking muzzle the bandits had forced on him
> 
> +The three of them can't get it off, so they bring him back to Kaer Morhen where Geralt had been waiting (he was supposed to meet Jaskier there but the bard never showed up)
> 
> ++Vesemir has to calm Geralt down when he sees Eskel carrying Jaskier in (probably passed out from stress/blood loss) and snatches his lute from Lambert before he can break it
> 
> +++Jaskier's lips are bloody when they get the thing off- the bandits had put it on too tight

Jaskier listened to the fighting for a long time before his mind processed it. The screams of people being broken weren’t all that different from the screams of dying men, and he’d long since tuned out the noises of the slavers’ camp in a last bid not to lose himself.

Now, though, he could definitely hear swords. He could hear more struggle than any captive but he put up. It was a battle.

Realizing this, he shifted, awaking a myriad of pains. A silent groan startled out of him as his vision went white, the sound of rushing in his ears. Quiet, quiet. Don’t draw attention.

Without waiting for his eyes to fully clear, he pulled himself together and kept moving. There was no time for wallowing.

He shuffled forward on his knees, towards the tent flap. The chain that kept him tied to the ground--on a big metal spike like some kind of livestock--barely got him to the other side of the space. It pulled tight on his throat, but if he pressed himself to the floor, unnerved by how good the cold ground felt on his battered face, he could see movement outside.

White hair. Silver sword.

His throat tightened, threatening tears as waves of relief crashed over him.

Geralt. As little as he wanted him to see him like this, Geralt was here, and he was killing the bastards who had done this, and Jaskier had a way out.

He shuffled back and sat on his heels to take the strain off his throat and ankles and waited for the tent flap to fly open.

It stretched on, the sound of fighting.

The sound of dying.

Silence.

He swayed on his knees and waited.

“Vesemir,” Eskel said, jerking his head in the direction of the collection of tents. There was a heartbeat, uneven like stumbling footsteps, amid the canvas, and it didn’t come from any of the terrified chattel that they were letting out of the wagon train cages.

The three of them were far too used to the hatred from those they rescued for it to sting how the people avoided them, how they turned tail and ran into the unforgiving wilderness without a word. The captives treated them as no better than the slavers, but none of them did this for glory. They were here to eliminate monsters--fanged and human alike--and save who they could. The fearful heartbeat could be one of the victims, run into the tents to hide, but Eskel doubted it. Far more likely that they had one more monster to kill.

Vesemir pried open the cage he’d been forcing with a loud clatter and stepped far out of the way, allowing the occupants to run. With a jerk of his head to Eskel, he started in the direction of the noise. Lambert could finish releasing the others. It wouldn't do to allow any of the filth that had been running this camp survive.

They moved silently, shifting around each other with the ease of decades.

Eskel drew his sword to match the dagger still in Vesemir's hand, ready for a bandit who’d allowed his fellows to be killed to save his skin. Or for some kind of pet monster, something that needed to be kept separated from the rest of the prisoners. There had been plenty of those here, and the Witchers had killed the beasts they’d found so far, but there was no telling how many the men had had. This, by the looks of it, was the leader’s tent, and Eskel had to wonder what might be kept there.

After a silent exchange with Vesemir, he used the tip of his sword to push the fabric open and, expecting to see a beast, led them into the space with silver.

It wasn’t a monster.

Instead of horns or scales or a growling maw, he stepped inside to find a battered, leanly-muscled man, stark naked and chained to the floor.

Blue eyes met his, awash in relief.

He swayed, confusion blurring the waves of emotion as he managed to focus on them. Relief remained clear as his eyes slid to Vesemir, shadowed only partially by curiosity. After a glance between them, his head tipped to the side. It was as clear a question as the words he couldn’t speak through the muzzle chained over his face.

Eskel wasn’t sure how to answer.

Despite being chained like one, he wasn’t a beast of any kind. He was human. He smelled like blood and pain, like the men who had hurt him, and underneath it like something familiar that Eskel couldn’t quite place. He smelled like exhaustion and pain, but not fear.

Naked, collared, and staked to the floor, somehow there wasn't even a note of fear.

It wasn't a sentiment he knew how to handle.

Vesemir recovered faster and crossed to the man, crouching down to peer into his face, to be sure their senses weren’t deceiving them about his humanity. He held out a hand, reluctant to startle the injured human, and asked for permission to touch with a gruff, "All right?"

The man couldn’t give it, of course, not verbally, but he nodded and keeled forward, forehead landing on the old Witcher’s shoulder. He rested there a moment, shoulders shuddering, and then his body went slack, relief getting the better of him and leaving him bereft of the adrenaline that had been holding his exhausted body up.

Vesemir looked up to meet Eskel’s eyes over the mussed brown curls, alarm in his face. His hands were wide, not touching the bruised and bare skin, but as the man slumped bonelessly against him, he was forced to catch him.

It was kind of funny.

Eskel kept one eye on the two of them as he sheathed his sword and circled the space, glancing through things in search of clues as to what this prisoner was doing here, away from the others, away from the monsters. From the smell, he could get a fair idea.

He kicked at a pile of the slaver’s things disgustedly. He was ready to turn around, say there was nothing here and they should go find Lambert, when he saw something.

His eyes landed on smooth, curved wood buried half under a bedroll. It seemed out of place in the dirty, uncouth environment, delicate and well-cared for. He bent to pick it up and found… a lute. A very fine elven lute, well loved from travel.

Wait.

He turned quickly, parsing again for the familiar scent he hadn’t been able to place. And there, under the scent of blood and his captors, was Geralt. Or not _Geralt._ But a new, Geralt-adjacent scent. The one that had been clinging to his clothes and his things and his stupid dirty bedroll that he refused to wash before his bard got there...

"Well, fuck."

Lambert stepped into the tent then, while Vesemir shifted the apparently fully-unconscious man and unclipped the chain that kept him staked to the ground. “What’d you find?”

Eskel held up the lute.

Lambert looked between the instrument and the two on the floor and froze.

"Shit," he agreed.

Vesemir looked up, eyes also narrowing in on the lute.

“Fuck. You think this--”

Eskel gestured helplessly with the instrument. “You know another bard that would be relieved by three Witchers rushing in with swords drawn?”

Silence hung for a few moments as they all thought about it.

“He seemed surprised,” Vesemir added. “When we came in.”

“Like he was expecting someone else,” Eskel agreed.

“Well, shit.”

The journey there from Kaer Morhen had been a day and a half hard riding, and with their new passenger it would be a much slower return. They couldn't rely on Witcher stamina because they had a human with them and because for now, he was unconscious.

He was unconscious as they freed him from the chains holding him to the floor. 

He was unconscious when they found the muzzle and collar impossible to remove without tools and magic. 

He was unconscious as they loaded him onto a horse and put some distance between them and the smoking slaver’s camp. They couldn’t go far, not without stopping to check him for injuries--humans were so goddamn fragile--or letting him actually rest, so as little as they wanted to delay their return to the keep, they built a camp. 

Once they were settled for the night, a fire warming the cloak he was wrapped in, the man finally jolted awake. He cried out, noises near silenced by the metal over his face, and fought to get free of the cloak restricting his movement. For someone who appeared to have been held for some time, he still had some fight in him. 

Fight that was taking him much too close to the fire. 

Eskel surged up, gesturing for the others to stand back. They didn’t need to overwhelm him.

“Hey, hey,” he said, squeezing himself between the man and the fire and soothing him like a frightened horse. “You’re okay.”

The bard sucked heavy breaths through the muzzle, eyes coming into focus, taking Eskel in. Slowly, painfully slowly, he seemed to calm down. He was still trembling, but his sides were no longer heaving like bellows. The fear of waking in a strange place seeped away as he looked between the three of them and apparently decided he was safe. Without any sign of caution around strangers, around Witchers, he reached out and tapped Eskel’s wolf medallion, staring at him with question in his eyes. 

“Yes,” he answered. “We’re Geralt’s fellows. You’re his bard? Jaskier?”

He nodded, swaying a little in relief. 

“Is there a way to take off that muzzle?” he asked, straight to the first order of business. They needed to get it off, needed to give him food, water… Needed to prevent Geralt from being an unbearable nursemaid when they finally got back. 

Jaskier shook his head and wiggled his fingers. Magic. 

He sighed. “That’s what we figured. We’ll get you to Kaer Morhen and figure it out.”

Even with half his face covered, Eskel could see him smile in the crinkle of his eyes, in the expressive warmth of them as he nodded. 

Jaskier gestured to each of them in turn with a questioning look. It was impressive how clearly he asked his questions without words.

“I’m Eskel.” Then, gesturing to the other two, he clarified, “Geralt, Lambert and I trained with Vesemir.”

Jaskier nodded and gave the two others a small wave. 

His eyes landed on the lute that had been stacked with the other baggage, and he’d scrambled up before Eskel could stop him, crossing the small camp on unsteady legs to go grab it. One hand holding the cloak closed around him, the other fumbled numbly with the straps before getting it free. 

His fingers brushed across the strings, a gentle strum, and some of the lingering tension slid out of his shoulders. He scooped it up, cradling it like it a child he needed to protect, and carried it back to the fire with him. When he settled again, the lute in his lap, Eskel nodded and stood. Satisfied that Geralt’s bard wasn’t going to immediately drop dead on their watch, he turned his focus back to preparing dinner. 

Jaskier began picking out a tune on the instrument, something soft and mindless, just comfort for himself and background noise for the rest of them. They let him be until Vesemir decided it was time to patch him up. 

He’d heated some water by the fire, a courtesy none of the rest of them would have gotten, and brought soap and bandages over to settle next to him.

Eyeing the things warily, lute between him and Vesemir like a shield, he shook his head just a little and looked up at him questioningly. 

“Yes, we have to,” Vesemir answered. 

Jaskier made a face and hesitantly set his lute aside. With deep reluctance, he removed the cloak from his shoulders, letting it pool around his waist and revealing a torso battered with mistreatment. 

“Hm.” 

He gave Jaskier the soap to clean himself up, starting on his back with a salve he was glad he’d bothered to bring. 

Mostly, it was bruises. Handprints and signs of beatings with blunt objects or fists. There was very little split flesh--likely, they hadn’t wanted to risk infection while they left him untreated. He spread the salve on the darkened flesh anyway. There was a bite mark, human but deep, in his shoulder that Geralt was going to hate, and crescent marks of nails in his hips, but for the most part, the injuries could have been worse. He shifted around to the front as Jaskier finished cleaning, noting the red tinge to the water apparently rolling from under the cuffs magically sealed on his wrists. He did his best to press some salve under the edges, but a real treatment would have to wait until they could get them off. 

Lambert tossed them his spare breeches and a loose cotton shirt--notably Eskel’s shirt. It was a valiant effort to diffuse the awkwardness of seeing Geralt’s bard wrapped up in their clothing. Jaskier was shaking too badly to do it himself, so Vesemir helped, tugging the clothes onto him silently and efficiently. 

“That should do,” Vesemir concluded, dropping his cloak back around Jaskier to complete the whole uncomfortable experience. 

Jaskier caught his hand and squeezed it in thanks before pushing weakly to his feet, already halfway to Eskel and the food by the time Vesemir had recovered from his shock at the casual touch. 

The food was prepared, Jaskier bullying his way into helping cook it with an eye roll that told them exactly what he thought about Witcher cooking. He was so damn expressive that they all managed to forget the muzzle until they were settled again near the fire, food in front of everyone but him.

The fresh cooked meat turned to ash in Eskel’s mouth despite the fact that Jaskier had actually seasoned it with something he found, forgotten, at the bottom of a saddlebag. They sat in silence, very aware of the fact that three of them could go a lot longer without eating or drinking than the injured human in their midst. From his position sitting next to him, Eskel could eye the side of the metal plating, and he searched again for some way to open it or at least shift it out of the way. They needed to get water into him at the very least. 

He reached out to prod at it, and Jaskier just tilted his head, allowing access. He winced a few times--the metal must be pressing into his skin--but didn’t pull away. It was still so odd to see a human casually allowing himself to be grabbed and manhandled by Witchers. Helpful, but odd.

His fingers found a latch of some kind, a slide, and he pushed on it to try to slide the iron grating away from his lips.

Jaskier’s eyes widened, and his hands jumped to Eskel’s a moment too late. Instead of sliding the grating away from his lips, the latch slid a solid plate down, clicking into place to completely seal off the front of the muzzle and cut off the flow of air to his nose and mouth. 

“Shit!”

They got in each other’s way in their haste to unlatch it, combining with Jaskier’s natural panic to leave him gasping when they got the plate out of the way, sucking heavy breaths through his nose that were still pained and restricted by the muzzle. 

“Fuck,” Eskel said with feeling. “I'm sorry. You okay?”

Jaskier nodded, patting his arm like he was the one needing comforting, and leaned forward to brace himself on his knees. He was trembling, even as his breathing steadied. 

Eskel could recognize trauma when he saw it.

They had used that on him. Probably a hell of a lot longer. 

Jaskier looked up through his eyelashes, curls of hair straggling in his face, and Eskel felt the question more than saw it. 

He shook his head. “We don’t have to tell him. You can decide how much you want him to know.”

The relief was heartbreaking, and he almost wished he hadn’t given that promise. Geralt should know what his bard had been through, even if it would make him unpleasant company. 

The tension was seeping out of him, but even so, a pall had fallen on the campsite. All of them were on edge, the pain radiating off the bard a grating sensation on the Witchers’ nerves. Eskel spread out a bedroll near to the fire and nudged him to move to it, piling on a few extra blankets and one musty camping pillow in an attempt to assuage his own guilt. 

When Jaskier tried to shake his head, push the blankets back to him, he laughed and insisted. “Not one of us is going to be sleeping after the day we’ve had. We don’t need bedrolls to meditate. Get some rest.”

Reluctant, but grateful, he accepted, and curled into the blankets to sleep.

Eskel settled himself in, eyes sharp on the horizon, to guard the camp and was unsurprised when the others joined him.

Riding with Jaskier turned out to be… difficult. 

He’d gone pale at the thought of getting up on the horse, and all of them were uncomfortably aware of the injuries that would hurt him during the ride--they’d smelled it on him, seen the limping--but they didn’t have the time to waste treating him gingerly.

Vesemir had forgone the saddle in tacking up that morning, just the saddle blanket creating a broader and softer area to load the bard onto. Then, Vesemir had swung up in front of him, half to keep up their pace and half to catch the bard if he fell. 

Two passengers might have worn his horse quickly, but she couldn’t fade faster than her passenger. They stopped frequently to let Jaskier rest, along streams where he could splash water on his face or in cool shade where he could catch his breath. It was slowing them down, stretching the day’s ride into two, but even this pace seemed to be stripping Jaskier of his strength. They still couldn’t get even water past the muzzle, not without drowning him in the process, and as the heat of the day peaked, the Witchers started exchanging worried glances.

“You still with us, Jaskier?”

“Hm.”

The response startled a laugh out of Lambert. 

“Oh, you _have_ been traveling with Geralt a long time.”

“Hm,” Jaskier agreed and the smile was in his eyes again, fond beneath the weariness and discomfort of the journey. 

“How do you even put up with him?” Lambert teased. 

Jaskier hummed in a dramatic way that Eskel took to mean that it was a hardship that was his burden to bear. 

At the next stop, Lambert claimed Jaskier, protesting that Vesemir’s horse needed the break, and they had a lengthy conversation in which Lambert told stories that would make Geralt apoplectic and Jaskier chattered back with enraptured sounds and a wide vocabulary of hums that had Lambert shooting Vesemir teasing jibes. 

When Vesemir and Jaskier had a brief exchange with no words spoken, Eskel had to wonder how Geralt had chanced upon this bard, how Jaskier had stuck around long enough to learn a vocabulary of humming and grunting. 

He watched Jaskier braid the mane of Lambert’s horse in thanks for the ride and thought about his taciturn friend acquiring this restless, colorful human as a companion. It was comical to think about the two of them traveling together, but he already felt a worrying amount of concern for him after less than a day of travel. Geralt was probably irredeemably attached.

They traded horses often, keeping up the pace as much as they could, all trying to distract themselves from Jaskier’s flagging strength.

Somehow, wedged against Vesemir’s back and balancing precariously on the horse’s rump, the bard got his lute out and its strap across his shoulders. The three of them listened silently while he tuned the instrument. This was a good sign, right? People on the brink of succumbing to injuries didn’t take time to play a song.

Eskel was still trying to convince himself that they would be delivering him to Geralt mostly in one piece when the cheeky bastard started into a familiar tune. It startled a snort of laughter out of his throat.

“No,” Lambert interrupted. “Stop it.”

“Hm?”

“I won’t be singing that for the next week. Play something else.”

Jaskier laughed.

“That song,” Lambert growled at him with little actual feeling behind it, “Has been a giant fucking pain in my ass.”

With an innocent expression, Jaskier cocked his head to the side. “Hm?” 

“You know what you did,” he said, pointing threateningly. 

Jaskier laughed again and went back to strumming. He picked a different tune than _Toss a Coin _, and so the exchange was almost forgotten when Eskel noticed him plucking one handed at open strings, his other hand moving slowly to his side.__

__Then something flew at the back of Lambert’s head. It was a gentle lob, unsubtle, and the Witcher caught it on instinct, not even turning as he snatched it out of the air. He glanced at Jaskier with a mockingly annoyed look and opened to reveal a small copper coin._ _

__“You’re a little shit,” he said._ _

__Jaskier tossed his head back in what would have been a cackle were it not silenced, and Eskel felt a surge of protectiveness for this bright sunbeam of a man who could go through hell and come out laughing._ _

__

__The sun began its descent, and it was clear to them all that Jaskier was not faring well._ _

__He put on an impressive show of smiling and acting fine, but his skin was grey, his eyes distant. He’d stopped teasing or humming hours ago. The injuries he’d collected were slowing him down and the fatigue from hard travel with no water had forced Vesemir to shift him to the front of the horse where he could hold him upright._ _

__They were close. So close. Another three or four hours ride at this pace, but Jaskier had started to make pained noises despite his obvious efforts to keep quiet. His breathing was stained and didn’t fully fill his lungs._ _

__Vesemir felt his body give out only a moment before he slid sideways over the horse’s withers. Cursing, he caught the bard and lifted him fully into his arms, cradled against his chest. They were out of time. He couldn’t pick up his pace, not with half his proper tack and the unconscious body and the growing darkness._ _

__He had to make the call._ _

__“Ride ahead,” he ordered, turning to the others, who’d noticed Jaskier’s fall and had their eyes fixed on him. “Get the potion started and the tools gathered. We can’t waste more time.”_ _

__He snapped off the recipe they would need and made the both of them repeat it back. It was a variation on an immunity potion, strong and topical, and should suppress the magic on the muzzle long enough to pry it free._ _

__They were still hovering, eyes still fixed on Vesemir’s cargo. A growl rose in his throat._ _

__“Go!”_ _

__

__Eskel and Lambert rode hard for the keep, pushing their horses into eating the miles until they were heaving and foaming when they reached the gates._ _

__Geralt was there to meet them, catching Eskel's reins as he barely waited to come to a stop before swinging from the saddle._ _

__“What’s happened?” Geralt demanded. “Why isn’t Vesemir with you?”_ _

__Eskel didn't stop to answer, leaving Lambert to explain as he headed for Vesemir's tower to get the potion started._ _

__"We rode ahead," Lambert explained, dropping from his horse as well with his hands raised. "Vesemir is--"_ _

__Geralt couldn't hear what he said next, because his eyes found a familiar shape strapped to Lambert's saddlebags, and a rushing sound filled his ears._ _

__He could think of few reasons why that lute would be parted from its owner and all of them made him sick._ _

__"Where is he?" he growled, cutting Lambert off._ _

__Lambert sighed heavily. "I just told you, Vesemir will be here--"_ _

__"Not Vesemir." Geralt snapped. "The bard."_ _

__"How do you--" he frowned, startled, at Geralt and than, when he noticed the direction of Geralt's gaze, cursed. "Fuck, I forgot that was there."_ _

__"Where," Geralt repeated firmly, "Is he?"_ _

__"Vesemir has him. He's…" he searched for the words for several torturous seconds and then said, "We need to get the potions started."_ _

__Geralt couldn't breathe. "Tell me what happened."_ _

__"We found him. He's fine. We're bringing him here."_ _

__"If he were fine, you wouldn't have rode here like Nilfgaard was at your heels. What's happened? Where did you--"_ _

__For the second time, a realization struck him dumb._ _

__The others had ridden out to rid the region of a ring slave traders, slavers that were cruel enough to be monsters Witchers would choose to handle._ _

__"They had him," he said, certain of the fact. "What did they do?"_ _

__"They hadn't broken him."_ _

___Yet_ hung in the air._ _

__"Geralt, we really need to go help Eskel."_ _

__

__Vesemir rode into the keep, carrying a wrapped bundle of cloak and person as though it were infinitely fragile._ _

__Geralt's heart leapt into his throat at the sight. And at the scent of blood._ _

__"Is it ready?"_ _

__Geralt reached to take the bard from him, but the older Witcher seemed reluctant to part with him and just demanded again, "Is it ready?"_ _

__Geralt nodded wordlessly and was rewarded by an unconscious armload passed down from horseback. He got brown curls in his face, could feel his too light frame, but couldn't see the hurt from the way he was covered.._ _

__Vesemir swung down, passed his horse to Ciri, who had anxiously come out to meet them, and jerked his head in the direction of the tower. "Stop being a mother hen, Geralt. Bring him."_ _

__

__Laying Jaskier out on Vesemir's table broke his heart in two._ _

__He was dressed in over-large Witcher's clothes, and it only accentuated his frail frame, the loss of weight and muscle._ _

__What drew Geralt's eyes first was the muzzle covering half of his face, strapped under his chin and across the bridge of his nose. His jaw was forced closed, his lips pressed to a grate that was (barely) allowing air into his nose._ _

__It was all Geralt could see for so long that the collar and cuffs took several aching heartbeats to register._ _

__“Hold him steady,” Vesemir ordered, giving Geralt something to do with his hands while they crowded around the table. He grabbed the order like a lifeline, tuning out the rest while they dampened the magic and cut the metal away._ _

__Jaskier’s lips were pale and split where they had been pressed against the metal, raw impressions left across his skin. Blood and the beginnings of infection made themselves known on his wrists and ankles and throat._ _

__Somewhere in the process, his eyes had snapped open and a strangled cry had left his throat._ _

__He struggled, but Geralt held him still so that Vesemir could bandage his wounds. Eskel was there with a water skin, and Jaskier’s eyes cleared as he drank greedily._ _

__“Geralt,” he rasped, when the water was pulled away, slowing him down before he could make himself sick. He pushed himself up despite the hands on him grabbing onto shirts and hands like he was searching._ _

__“Here,” Geralt answered, arms wrapping around his shoulders._ _

__He slumped against him. “Oh thank Melitele.” He turned on the table, burying himself in Geralt’s chest, seeming to be trying to crawl inside him._ _

__Geralt held onto him and looked over his head at the others. How did one thank someone for saving someone's life and in the same breath ask them to get the fuck out?_ _

__He didn't need to, though. Now that his wounds were bandaged, Vesemir nodded and ushered Eskel and Lambert out the door, shooting Geralt a look that was just a little too knowing to be comfortable._ _

__“I have you,” Geralt said, unnecessary as Jaskier clung onto him. “You’re safe.”_ _

__Jaskier wiped his face on Geralt’s shirt and tucked his face into Geralt’s neck. “Not that I didn’t like your friends. I just… needed _my_ Witcher.”_ _

__Geralt hummed and plucked at his clothes. “Will you tell me what happened?”_ _

__“I will not.”_ _

__Geralt growled low in his throat. “Jaskier.”_ _

__Jaskier didn’t answer, just held on to him. Geralt waited, he was good at waiting, but behind them on the table were the bloody cuffs. The muzzle. He was not good at this._ _

__Eventually, Jaskier released the death grip he’d had and sat back._ _

__Geralt didn’t let him go, but was relieved to see his face. “Talk to me.”_ _

__He might not know the right things to say, but he knew that Jaskier needed to talk._ _

__“It was… awful having my words taken away. I think they knew…” he looked far away, and something in Geralt’s chest tugged._ _

__He scrubbed at his face, scratching the indentations until Geralt took his hands and squeezed them, bringing them down to his chest._ _

__“I kept insulting them. None of the other prisoners did things like that, but I just couldn’t help it. I couldn’t let them win. I talked back. Made them angry. It was… not smart. ”_ _

__Geralt kissed his forehead. It was a common enough reaction to Jaskier, but usually he was around to protect him. Usually he stepped in before Jaskier’s tongue got him hurt._ _

__“Even after they beat me, I nearly bit the bastard’s dick off, so they must have decided my mouth wasn’t good for anything.”_ _

__Jaskier’s voice had gotten tight and once again, Geralt’s blood was pounding through his veins, the rage thick on his tongue and stifling any response._ _

__“They treated me like a monster after that. Kept me chained up and away from the other humans.” He looked lost, staring away at nothing._ _

__Geralt couldn’t think of what to say. He was useless at this. He was useless at everything but killing, and the others had already done that._ _

__Jaskier shook his head, clearing the thoughts that had dragged him under. “I knew who the monster was. I knew you’d come for me.”_ _

__Geralt felt a stab of guilt at the words, and Jaskier seemed to realize what he’d said._ _

__“Geralt, you did save me,” he insisted. “They could have just left me to figure out this shit on my own after they killed those men and let me free.” He managed a smile at Geralt and traced his fingers down his cheek. “But they brought me here for your sake. They recognized me bound, gagged, and naked. Someone must have been talking. They knew I was yours.”_ _

__“Apparently a few people still need to learn that,” he rasped, allowing Jaskier to pull him back and rest their foreheads together._ _

__“Apparently.”_ _

__

__Jaskier noticed the way they circled._ _

__Witchers liked to think they were subtle, but they weren’t. They were a neurotic little bunch of emotionally constipated loners, and when they found something they wanted to protect, they were nigh impossible to shake._ _

__He allowed himself to be herded, to be kept within eyesight of at least two of them at all times. He’d expected as much from Geralt, but apparently one song and a day’s journey where he couldn’t even speak was enough to charm the rest of them and he…_ _

__He was quite proud of that, actually._ _

__Even if it was terribly inconvenient._ _

__He scooped Ciri up, ruffling her hair, when they were yet again being ushered into the keep as dusk fell and snow began to pile up. “Oh princess, what are we to do? We are but two sheep, quite overwhelmed by the attentions of four sheepdogs.”_ _

__She laughed and snapped her teeth at him. They’d been spending far too much time with Witchers._ _

__“Alas, I am betrayed. One sheep, four sheepdogs, and one lion cub.”_ _


End file.
